Recently, I took a trip to North Carolina, where I have some things in storage. One of the things I brought back with me is my Fender Stratocaster. I used to own a Gibson ES-335 too, dark walnut finish, and that was a beautiful guitar. I like the Strat also, of course.

Right after I graduated from high school, I started teaching myself to play the guitar. I wanted to write songs, join a band, and become a professional musician. I'm so thankful I did not go down that road any further than I did, but one thing I have never lost is my love for the guitar, and for guitar music.

I'm more a closet guitarist. It's more fun for me to put on a CD and play along with those people, making up stuff in the moment and feeling completely free to enjoy it. If I had to play it the same way each time, it would feel like work. Performing drives me crazy with anxiety, but not as bad as one guy I played with for a short time; he'd get hives all over his body, and he had to play with his back to the audience. I remember what a shock it was to me once when we were auditioning in front of some kids at a high school, and suddenly here was this guy all freaked out. No thanks. Too much neuroticism.

I like finding my space among others, sometimes playing rhythm and sometimes running though parts of some scale or another, played against the rhythms laid down by someone else. I like the way two notes shimmer when they get played together. I can feel it, not just hear it. I like the textures in music. That's why I like it when people leave space in what they do rather than muddying up everything and filling up every spot with some kind of sound so you can't really pick out one thing from another.

When you're playing with others like that it feels kind of dangerous. If you don't cover the next space, will someone else do it? Will the whole piece keep moving? When we used to jam, I recall realising that the primary rule was not "Get it right." The primary rule was "Don't stop!" If people followed that rule and relaxed, then it often seemed as if the music took on life of its own in which I became part of something that existed in our midst - something that did not reduce to just this one or that one but something that was more than any one of us or even all of us together. Further, it was something that had life.

So, now I've got my Strat here. I don't play in a band anymore. God did not give me that to do. I'm too busy with other things. He gave me other pursuits, and I'm very thankful for that. However, He did not yank guitars and guitar music out of my hands either. I moved on from that phase of my life, leaving part of it behind while still holding on to other aspects.

I think that's kind of how life works; we move through experiences, leaving space for others to play, letting go of those things that cannot be or cannot last in order to grasp hold of what is currently present and available.

There is still a part of me inside where I dance with a guitar strapped over my shoulder, lost in the sweep and crunch, the growl of the sine wave. I love the syncopation. God knows I could spend all my time doing that but have nothing much to show for it except a worn out head and ringing ears. There were other things I was made for, but I'm thankful that God's direction allowed me to pursue and to enjoy all the various things He has made me to become.

We are complex beings with many parts; each of us is, as some of my psychology colleagues like to say, a community of selves. We are what we've been at different times and places, and we are what we face right now, being drawn out by the people and contexts in which we find ourselves today. We are not one thing but many. We are not one person, but several.

Dr. Philip Brownell, M.Div., Psy.D. is a psychologist at Benedict Associates. He can be contacted at 295-2070. Send e-mails to crossroads@g-gej.org